The Green Man

I have been lost for days, perhaps weeks. Sleep comes in bursts but is then interrupted by fierce owls calls, shrill and menacing echoes from the inky canopies above.

When finally the sun breaks each morn, I open heavy lids and behold my small, futile hands before me, the pastel greens of leaves reflecting and lancing between them like the intricate lace patterns my mother would thread. Darning the socks of her four sons, pulling those inherited needles, barely sharp, through the holes earned by boyhood and young adulthood. Perhaps it has been weeks, lost in this wood. Before I forget my own name, I shall speak it: Alistair Brenenheim.

Now for a bit of backstory about me and how I landed in my current predicament. My family lives in a cottage at the edge of the wood, (CreechWood it is called by the village) where the Brenenheim line has lived for generations. Father works in the mill, like most men of the town. Of all his sons, I am his least favored. Strong as an ox and in possession of dark, brooding features, my three older brothers (in order of age from oldest to youngest ) Johann, Abelard and Bastian take after Father. They enjoy hunting, fishing, fighting and drinking ale in the public house. Now old enough to work, Johann works alongside Father in the mill.

As for me, I take after Mother, with her delicate bird-bone frame, fair skin as translucent as a breached fish and hair as red as the sun dying in the west at end of day. With her nimble fingers, Mother sews and mends clothes for the townsfolk. With the scraps from the clothes she makes, I like to make costumes and play pretend in the garden behind our cottage. In my cobbled-cloth costumes, I fight dragons as a king, as a shepherd I find my lost sheep and as a sailor I chart new waters. I also like to plant and grow flowers, watching Mother smile through the window at their unfurling vibrant blooms as she works. I like learning the names of plants and identifying the ones you can eat and which ones are poisonous to eat. I am Mother’s favorite. Many a night when Father returns home from the mill, weary and sore, I leave Mother’s side to bring him his ale. With a furrowed brow, he does not break my gaze, but chides Mother, “You coddle the boy too much. Look at him, prancing around in his dresses. He should be out tousling with the other boys.” Or, “that boy, always with his head in the clouds. Soon he will have to learn how the world works.” On these occasions, Mother just sighs, runs her fingers affectionately through my hair and tells Father to let me be.

CreechWood, the forest that borders our home, is feared by most of the townsfolk. Dense and sprawling, it is so dark in some parts that even in the noon of day it appears as pitchy as night. It is rumored to be haunted, enchanted and is said to swallow the bravest men whole. Perhaps even more feared than the forest itself is the terrible being that is said to inhabit it. Part goat, part snake and part vulture, he is called the Green Gnasher, for the human souls he devours, gnashing bones with razor sharp teeth. How the legend came to be, no one knows as supposedly no one who encounters him has lived to tell the tale.

As for how I ended up in the depths of CreechWood with no means of retracing my steps home, I can only tell that which I remember. I was in the garden the other afternoon, thankfully dressed in my warm wool breeches and shawl (for the forest at night chills the bones), playing at finding my lost sheep, when Abelard and Bastian snuck up behind me. “There! I see your lost sheep, just beyond the trees!” They shouted, snickering. Preceding to chase me, we were soon beyond view of the cottage, with dense undergrowth all around. Running down a steep hill, the right leg of my breeches snagged a thorn and I tumbled down an embankment, hidden from view. I must have hit my head for when I awoke, it was night and great roots tangled down above my head from the banked trees above, the deep smell of soil filling my nostrils. There was no sign of my brothers. My voice grew hoarse from calling their names.

And so, each day since, I plot my way through the trees, trying to return home. Each second, I try not to let the fear needle my thoughts but each night it blooms bigger, like a fungus. I have found a small clear stream so I have plenty of fresh water to drink. I find plants and berries to eat. Still, the hunger gnaws at my belly and I find myself drooling as I imagine eating steaming forkful after forkful of Mother’s pies. Since that first day, I don’t let myself cry. If I give into despair, it becomes too hard to get up again. Fearful though I may be, I have seen many glorious sights: a mother fox in a den with her kits playing all around, nests of webs whose worm inhabitants glow green in the dark, lighting up the night with their flicks of pulsing neon. I have heard harmonies between frog and finch more melodious than the most talented human composer could write.

Now, back to the current moment. It is late afternoon as I make my way alongside the stream, humming to myself to lift my spirits. Dusk is coming on fast and fireflies twinkle between branches. Bending down, I take a long drink from the stream when up ahead, where the creek opens flat and widens out, I see a tall figure wading through the haze. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I stand up to wave and shout. Sloshing forward, I run towards the figure, hoping they can lead me out of the woods. As I approach, the world around me seems to slow down, each rest between bird call lasting longer seconds between and the pulses of fireflies stilling to one steady glow. The babbling waters of the brook seem to stop flowing all together. Before me, in the ethereal haze: the most beautiful and terrifying sight I have ever beheld. In my ears, the most mellifluous lute music. My skin tingles pleasantly and is flushed with cozy mulled-wine warmth. For the first time in days or weeks, the feeling of my belly being full. In my nostrils, the wafting smells of the heaviest roses, jasmine, moss and driving spring rains.

There is not quite a way to describe him that approximates the truth of having him before you. He has the most handsome face I ever saw—chiseled cheek bones, green eyes set in glowing olive skin beneath a mane of autumn leaves. Below that: strong oaken legs that ended in hooves and a back full of brilliant teal and emerald feathers that glinted in the surrounding light. His hands are massive black crow claws sprouting from muscular redwood arms. He towers above me.

I extend my thin spindle hands to him, somehow not afraid for the first time since entering the woods. He bends down and takes them in his. He flashes a brilliant, opalescent smile of teeth that appear like individual bird beaks lined in an even row, peering over the edge of the same nest.

“I am Alistair. Who are you?”

He laughs a hearty laugh that sounds like warm apples tumbling down a sun-soaked hillside.

“You can call me Florian, as my true name does not have for it a human sound. Welcome to my home.”

Over the course of the eve I tell Florian of myself and my predicament. I tell him of Mother and my longing to be back with her. I tell him I miss the feeling of her fingers ruffling my hair, I miss her smiling at my flowers and costumes and I miss the taste of her pies. Will you help me find my way back to her ? I finally ask.

He laughs his warm apple laugh.

From his belt of vines, Florian produces a flower blossom.

“I like you. You are not like all humans. There are those who cannot see me. There are those who would seek to destroy me or my home. There are those who would fear me. It is all too human to fear what a human does not understand.”

I nod. As much as it would be rational to fear him, I could not find fear within myself.

Florian goes on, “I cannot leave my home and I know not of your mother. But I can give you this flower.”

He bends over and places a blossom of deep ruby red in the middle of my palm. At its heart, the flower is a deep violet that veins out in lacework lines to the ends of the deep ruby petals. It shimmers and seems to emit a low thrum.

“You must eat this flower. Once you do, you will be able to hear the trees speak. As you speak to them they will hear and understand you. One by one they can speak to one another and find the tree that sees your mother. I will warn you, however, once you eat this flower, it cannot be undone. You will always be able to hear the trees from then on.”

I thank him. He gently takes me in his redwood arms and places me atop a bed of the softest moss I have ever felt.

Night closes in and soon the image of him fades as he strides into the gathering dark. I sigh and stretch out. I yawn. I eat the flower.

That night I am awoken by what can only be described as the sound of old ladies bickering. I look to my right and the giant oak stretching above my moss bed complains across me to my left at another giant oak, smaller and more twisted.

“I cannot even move my lower twigs for this family of owls is always hopping about,” the first oak grumbles, her voice like rocks being shaken in a jar.

“Well, don’t I know! Last Spring I had those two families of woodpeckers bore into me! Hearing you speak of it all night, neither of us will ever get any sleep.”

I freeze, slowly piecing together the memory of the day and Florian’s words. I remember the flower. Then I wonder if it has all been a dream and if that perhaps I am still dreaming. I pinch myself. Still, I hear the oaks continue their dialogue. Bracing myself, I gather my courage. Finally I let out a shaky,

“Hello? Oaks, can you hear me?”

Simultaneously, the oaks stop mid-sentence. They both shriek with surprise.

“The human?! The human can hear us?”

They say in a shocked whisper.

“I can hear you.” I tell them who I am. I tell them about Florian and his flower.

I ask them if they could help me get back home. I ask them if they can see my mother or if they know anyone who has seen her.

“Why should we help a human, anyway?” The first Oak rejoined. “All of you want to destroy us. I have friends who say they have friends who have seen other friends felled by humans. That they use hatchets and carry their bodies to what is called a mill.”

“Even Florian says I’m not like other humans.” I plead. I explain to them that I love plants, that I grow plants and flowers and that I never want to work in a mill.

Finally they concede. They both attest that they will help if I help tell the humans about them and that I stop the hatchets and the mill. I promise them that I will devote the rest of my life to this end. Finally, we all agreed and caught a few snatches of sleep.

The next morning it was the alders I heard. By late morning I was able to hear the yews and the elms. By noon I could hear the pines and by evening I could hear the fruit trees. Each of them asking the same question, “Why should we help a human, anyway?” And each time I would give the same answer as I gave the oaks: that I am a friend who would devote my life to defending them.

Finally, as night comes on, I can hear the whole forest breathing and speaking. Each tree group has a different accent (elms and ashes have warbly voices for instance and maples sound very nasally, rowans have very clear, resounding voices etc.) As I wash up in the brook before finding a spot to lie down for sleep, finally I hear a wood ash say,

“Your mother’s face grows gaunt and she cries for you each night.” Then, “sure, I’ll give you some more of my root water, I have plenty,” as he then directed to his speech to a cypress on the other side of the creek.

I look up. “Please, will you lead me to her?”

Over the next two days, I learn how to turn their voices on and off in my mind, tuning into some and blocking others out. As I wind up through the labyrinth of dense trees, I touch their bark as I walk and hear deeper. I hear the vibrations of their memories, some ringed centuries deep. I tell them I am their friend. My new friends lead me step after step. At sunset of the second day, I see light breaking through the middle of the trunks instead of just near the tops. Gradually the light fingers through in wider gaps as I climb the ridge.

“She is in the garden!” A juniper seedling squeaks. I can no longer wait; I break into a full run.

Soon I see through the last line of trees to behold the cottage, its field in front, and the garden in back.

Mother was kneeling at one of the flower beds, tears streaking her cheeks, leaning over a red and purple flower. Slowly I approach. Tears brim my eyes.

A twig snaps and crunches beneath my foot. She starts at the sound. She turns to look at me. Slowly, the sadness on her face turns to slow shock and then to fast joy. She gets to her feet and we run towards each other. Neither of us can speak. She mouths to ask how I am. We reach for one another. Open-palmed, spilling seeds down soil-soaked, dextrous fingers, I watch as they fall, an offering at her feet. In reply, I whisper,

“I have been wondrous, how are you ?”